


Wenn Der Mond Die Sterne Küsst

by CaptainSlow



Series: Coming Back To You Universe [4]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: In this comfortable silence, when a shooting star zaps across the sky, a sudden adjustment is made in Richard's dreamland. It might be silly, it might be far-fetched, it might be plain impossible, but, somehow, there's Paul standing on that same stage next to him, cheered by thousands in the audience.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Series: Coming Back To You Universe [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785925
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	Wenn Der Mond Die Sterne Küsst

_One gentle touch_   
_And I'm helpless_   
_It's all too much_   
_For my senses_   
_One simple prayer_   
_Denied me_   
_When you're not there_   
_Beside me_

_The sun and the moon_   
_And the stars in the sky are laughing_   
_They've seen it all before.*©_

The night that's come down on the sleepy rural neighbourhood is humid and warm, way too warm for the season but it's a pleasant contrast to the scorching heat of the day that's finally ended. There's barely perceptible breeze rustling in the leaves and branches of the nearby trees, touching Richard's face and body in the gentlest of caresses, like a lover's breath on his bare skin, ephemeral but so wonderfully affectionate. Which reminds him of his own lover, one who's lying prostrate next to where Richard's reclining against the wall of the house, basking in the warmth radiating off the sun heated tiles of the roof they are lounging on. He's naked – and, knowing Paul, it'd be a surprise if he weren't – stretched on his back, hands pillowed under his head, eyes open but glazed, staring unseeingly up at the blackness of late August skies. Richard follows the direction of his dreamy gaze and peers at the endless enormity of the heavens above, too.

It's late at night now, way past one in the morning, and the anthracite space is dotted with scatters of countless stars, tiny dots twinkling in the heated atmosphere, mainly blue, but now and again there are yellows and reds, too. It never fails to take Richard's breath away, no matter how many times he's had a chance to behold the night sky. Presently, though, he shifts his gaze away from it soon enough, pinning it to the person who's sharing his company tonight and who seems to be way more fascinating to him at this particular moment than all the intricate constellations on the firmament.

Unlike him, Paul looks utterly mesmerised by what he's seeing up there in the sky, or else he must be sleeping with his eyes open. It's dark around, not a single source of light anywhere in sight, but, surprisingly, the starlight is sufficient for Richard to be able to tell the delicate features of his face, every single line gentle and perfect. He still has no clue as to why he'd want to be describing another man using the word _perfect_ , but damn if Paul isn't. He's a sight capable of competing with the mother nature's creation itself, the star-studded masterpiece above them, what with his wide-open eyes and just slightly parted lips and those damn eyelashes which are nigh on driving Richard insane.

Then, suddenly, Paul smirks, ever so mildly, eyes still glued to the dark sparkling blanket spanning the sky, and Richard realises Paul knows he's watching him. He doesn't mind him either knowing or smiling this gentle smile of his as it seems to light the space around them, too, along with the stars. That's a weird trail of thought, way too romantic and sentimental to be acceptable in the current circumstances – and the circumstances are that they are two guys fucking each other – but right now, Richard is probably willing to give it a miss. The starlit night sky is virtually there to evoke romanticism, it would perhaps be _un_ natural not to be fascinated by it, and as far as sex is concerned – they both are sated right now, so why not just go with the flow and immerse into this weirdly emotional but nonetheless sweet condition.

Instinctively, Richard's hand shifts towards Paul's splayed body, but he stops it before it has the chance to come anywhere near its destination, all of a sudden almost paralysed by the realisation of what exactly he is about to do. He was indeed aiming for Paul's hand, and he feels confused by the desire itself, by his sudden need for all this touchy-feely nonsense, by this compulsive wish to touch, to hold, to caress. They fucked just a couple of hours ago, why on earth would he want this intimacy now when he's not even remotely aroused? There's only tenderness in that move he nearly made, and that's what perplexes him even more profoundly. Shouldn't this sort of tenderness be involved in different circumstances with a person of the opposite gender?

His desire for Paul is still bewildering, has been right from the start, but while Richard can more or less justify the physical attraction between them – pleasure is pleasure, after all, as long as it feels good, what does it even matter who gives it to him? – these other things such as the all but irresistible want to be close and to fondle and to kiss the hell out of him remain inexplicable. He's not in love with Paul, he can't be, can he? The thought is ridiculous. The sex is good, and, frankly, he loves spending time in his company as well as play music together, but it has nothing to do with being in love. At the same time, though, sex can surely involve and evoke tenderness, too, can't it? It's only normal to feel affection and fondness for someone you sleep with, fancy hormones and all that, right? Richard clings to this explanation for dear life, telling himself that this is how it is, pure physical chemistry and nothing else. Besides, he reassures himself, there's no one around them, not a single soul to witness anything they do and draw wrong conclusions, only the myriads of stars scattered on the dark blue of the sky, silent observers of everything which takes place in the fickle light they emit, seeing but never judging.

 _What the hell_ , Richard decides. The stars have seen it all before, must have seen worse than two guys fucking or sometimes becoming way too affectionate with each other.

So, slowly and cautiously, as if he were apprehensive Paul might clobber him for doing this, even though he knows Paul would most likely be the last person in the world to complain, he allows his hand to go on with its journey. It's a rather short one, granted, just a matter of a few inches separating them, but it feels to Richard as if the time itself suddenly decided to stand still, and he's weightless, left suspended in this strange spacetime continuum where there's nothing else but the two of them and the indifferent twinkling stars above. When he finally reaches his target, his fingers brush over the knuckles of Paul's hand making him twitch barely perceptibly, and then finally take it into a proper hold, firm but gentle. Paul's hand feels warm, smaller than his own but unmistakably male, fingers and knuckles rough to the touch, yet somehow still delicate. When he shifts his eyes to Paul's face, he is met with another mild, close-mouthed smile directed back at him, Paul's eyes seeming big and dark in the faint starlight. Richard blinks at him, suddenly at a loss as to what he could say and uncertain whether there's a need to say anything at all or if everything is clear enough without words, so instead he simply pulls their joint hands into his lap, just as silently. He lets them rest on his thigh, enclosing Paul's into both of his own. As Paul, still smiling that absolutely illegal little smile of his, shifts his gaze back to the starry skies above, Richard's fingers do the most natural thing in the current circumstances – they start massaging the hand they're holding. In minute, careful motions, he absentmindedly rubs Paul's wrist, thin and bony, and then moves on to the back of his hand and his palm, to his knuckles and those strong snatchy fingers, talented in so many things. The activity seems to mesmerise him, some kind of an easy meditation technique, soothing and tranquilising, and oh, ever so pleasant. He gets so lost in time and in the sensation of Paul's skin against his own, that, when the latter moves and pulls him down, gently but persistently, Richard can't help but give a little start.

He hesitates only for a fleeting moment, though, more from surprise than anything else, having somehow drifted far away in his thoughts, his only connection with the real world being Paul's warm hand in his. Then he allows himself to be pulled down and takes his place alongside his lover, also on his back, his hand still in Paul's, their fingers entwined. They lie so close to each other that their bare shoulders touch and now, along with the heat of the roof tiles beneath him, Richard also feels the heat of Paul's body on his own skin, nice and accommodating. For a while, they do nothing at all, not even speak, just stare up at the sky and the slightly more distinguishable, denser, scatter of stars of the Milky Way across its expanse.

It's astounding that no matter how many times he's seen it in his life, it remains just as fascinating and mesmerising as it has always been. It's the same thing with Paul, no matter how many times they've fucked, the desire remains seemingly unquenchable, this need for closeness and thirst for more, and, just like with the intricate scatter of stars in the night sky, there's something new he discovers with Paul every single time. Initially, he was almost dead certain that the desire would subside once he'd scratched this odd itch and satisfied his curiosity by spending a night with him. As it's turning out, though, there's no end to his curiosity no matter how many nights there have been, not with this man.

Richard shifts his gaze from the flickering dots above to his left, through the darkness still able to tell Paul's profile, the features of his face smooth and relaxed, eyes open and gazing up at the stars dreamily. Then he moves his gaze further, towards their joint hands, wondering what the fuck they're doing, after all. They shouldn't be, should they? All this ridiculous lovey-dovey bollocks, it's for girls, isn't it? Yet, why in the name of any god there is does it feel this good to be doing just that, lie here under the starlit sky doing nothing but holding Paul's hand; not fucking, not even speaking to each other, just being here, together, in this moment, why the hell is it so godawfully good?

With a sigh he dearly wishes he could conceal better, Richard lets his gaze travel all the way back to Paul's face, to his confusion just to be met with the other man's piercing eyes. These eyes are intense even in the damn near complete darkness around them, making Richard suddenly want to jump and run, run anywhere where he'd be able to hide from the sheer naked intensity of this look, run to some safer territories before it's too late. But he doesn't. He can't even break the spell and look away, let alone move any limb of his body.

Paul still doesn't say anything, but his body language speaks clearly enough for him, what with his quirked eyebrow and a brief squeeze of his hand. Richard just swallows thickly, continuing to dully look back at him, wishing he knows not what for.

"It's bothering you, huh?" Paul finally asks, voice so soft it feels like a caress.

"What's bothering me?" Richard asks, rather stupidly all things considered because he understands perfectly well what exactly Paul's referring to.

" _This_." Paul lifts their entwined hands a little, giving Richard's another tiny squeeze, one which feels reassuring, or at least it's what Richard wants to hope for.

Even though it's dark, he still casts his eyes away from Paul's. He wants to say that no, it doesn't, that he doesn't give a single shit about anything else or anyone else, but he cannot, not quite, because, yes, it's starting to bother him more and more. It's not even the things they've been engaging between the sheets; for some reason, sex with Paul doesn't seem all that wrong to him. What does worry him is _this_. There's no fucking currently going on, yet it still feels good, making him want to be nowhere else but right here, with Paul, even if they'll do nothing else but spend the rest of the night snuggled under the star-studded blanket of the skies above, him holding Paul's hand in his.

When a while has passed and Richard still remains silent, having found nothing to say, Paul's hand leaves his and ends up on his cheek, slightly moist but oh so warm and insufferably tender. Paul beckons him to turn his head, and Richard obliges, finally meeting Paul's gaze again.

"It is, isn't it?" he asks again, just as softly as before.

Richard shrugs, a bit awkwardly in his position.

"It spells trouble, doesn't it?" he finally murmurs, for the first time voicing his fears out loud.

He'd be hard-pressed to tell Paul what kind of trouble, though, so he's relieved the latter doesn't ask him to specify what he means. Perhaps, he can relate, too.

"See no trouble around," Paul actually smirks at him and shakes his head lightly, his thumb brushing along Richard's cheekbone in a featherlight caress. "Only the stars and the sky and you, so handsome and all…" he grins, and Richard can't take his eyes off that grin, open and carefree, not for the life of him.

"You're flirting with me," he huffs in surprise and then frowns, not being certain whether he's more delighted or scandalised by the revelation.

"So what if I am? There's no one here but you and me," Paul whispers and finally rolls onto his side, bringing his face closer to Richard's. "We can do whatever the hell feels good." With that, Paul's lips end up brushing over Richard's in the lightest of kisses imaginable. "It's all right," he murmurs, sounding enviably confident, and then kisses him again. "It's all right."

All Richard can do is nod his head, and then sigh. On the spur of the moment, seeking more intimacy and genuinely wanting to believe in what Paul's saying, he lets the tip of his nose rub against his lover's dry lips, and then against his nose, too. Hearing Paul chuckle the way he does, so carelessly and cheerfully, doesn't go to his cock, no, not this time. This time, someone help him, it goes straight to his heart somehow. Well, perhaps it's already way too late to be bothered by anything, what with all _this_ , Richard muses, so he might as well heed Paul's advice and not give a damn.

"I'm not some whore who sleeps with you for money, I'm not going to restrain myself from kissing you or holding you or caressing you just because there's some prejudice against this. It feels good, and I'm gonna do what feels good without any pangs of fucking conscience," Paul states, his voice, albeit quiet, acquiring that particular stubborn quality it normally gets when he's preparing to argue the hell out of somebody, and for once in a lifetime it feels reassuring instead of annoying.

Richard swallows, nearly mesmerised by Paul's proximity and the sensation of his hand on his cheek, so impossibly gentle, watching his lips move temptingly as he speaks. Then he pulls Paul down to his own mouth, fingers entangling into his shaggy hair, and kisses him for all he's worth, the beautiful man and good lover and what seems like somebody who's swiftly becoming his good friend, too. And it sure as hell feels good to be kissing a friend.

Meanwhile, as Richard's conscience is entertaining him with its desperate attempts to justify what they are doing, Paul rolls half on top of him, one of his arms sneaking its way under Richard's head to keep him in place. His hold is firm but not restraining, which is a relief. Paul's fingers are gentle as they rake through Richard's own dishevelled hair, as gentle as they've ever been on him, enticing and teasing but never forceful. His lips on Richard's are persistent and searching but not relentless, not yet even though he knows it's not going to take them long to make this languid snogging escalate into more energy-consuming activities. For now, though, there's no urgency, and when Paul's free hand takes a journey down south, Richard is surprised to feel it ignore his dick completely. Instead, it ends up on his ass, with possessiveness which is by now familiar but which this time is compromised by the gentleness of his touch. Richard discovers he finds it good to have Paul's fingers kneading his buttocks, stroking and squeezing alternatingly, pushing him closer to himself until Richard's hard on presses to Paul's thigh. He gasps into his lover's mouth from the impact but doesn't move away, hugging Paul just a bit tighter and surprising himself by pulling his own leg closer to his chest to give Paul's probing fingers more access to his most private parts. He's surprised he's doing it; he's surprised he wants Paul's hands there; he's surprised that it feels _this_ good.

There's still a nagging doubt at the back of his mind, that same terrified voice that's been bothering him lately, but it's much duller now because of the rush of blood in his ears and the excitement in his stomach, and it's also drowned out by Paul's very real voice telling him that there's no one to see them and that it's all right. And it _does_ feel all right, way better than that, in fact. Paul's fingers are deft and clever, stroking him in places Richard never before thought could be erotic spots, but they are with Paul. His touch is feather-light, more teasing than actually stroking, and, with a moan, Richard pushes his ass towards Paul's hand like a cat in heat seeking caress.

He surprises himself again by doing this, by needing Paul's touch there so much, confused as he is by their rapidly evolving affair, which from a messy hand-job turned into a one-night stand turned into a whole sequence of these one-night stands, so much so that it doesn't really look like a fleeting fling anymore but more like a rather steady sexual relationship. He surprises himself by allowing Paul to do this to him, for the first time ever – because even despite the fact of their sexual relationship becoming steady, before tonight, the scenario was always the same – they'd somehow silently agreed upon Richard being the one on top right from night one. Paul didn't seem to mind, quite the opposite, and Richard wasn't sure he was ready to explore the other side, not then anyway.

Now, though, with Paul's supple lips on his, seeking and demanding, but soft, oh so soft, perhaps the softest part of him given his skinny build, and with his knowing nimble fingers massaging his entrance and the sensitive area further to his balls, Richard can only moan weakly because, damn, this feels nothing short of heavenly. He knew it had to be, judging by Paul's reactions when he did the same to him, but knowing and experiencing turn out to be two different things, and he's astounded by the intensity of the sensation. Besides that, he's immensely grateful to Paul for not forcing him into this, for taking it slow and allowing him to adjust and somehow get over the fact that he really _wants_ to do it with a man. Even when Richard starts thrusting his dick against Paul's thigh, pushing his ass towards Paul's hand on the back stroke, his lover's touch still remains cautious.

"Paul," Richard all but wheezes at last, exhaling shakily against Paul's cheek.

"Mmm?" Paul hums, stopping his ministrations and leaving his wonderful warm hand rest on one of Richard's buttocks.

But Richard doesn't answer – he _cannot_ answer. He doesn't know what he can possibly say, or rather, he _does_ know, but somehow words seem to get stuck in his throat on their way out because he's also terrified by what he suddenly wants so desperately. So he remains silent, his breathing quivering on each exhale, eyes squeezed tight, and hoping Paul will understand him without any words spoken.

And it seems like his prayers have been heard by someone up there, or perhaps his thoughts read by Paul himself as, with one little peck on his lips, he gingerly pushes Richard's shoulder, urging him to lie on his back instead. Richard obliges willingly, and when Paul predictably ends up between his legs, he bends them in the knees, spreading them as wide as he can so that Paul's dick could brush over the place he needs it to be in. He feels the touch of moisture against his perineum, swallows nervously and brings Paul's face to his own, holding it in both of his hands, the slight change of position making Paul's flesh rub more substantially against his most private parts. 

"You're okay with this?" Paul asks after a thorough kiss they share, his voice landing in soft warm puffs onto Richard's lips.

"Wanna know what you feel every time we do it," Richard answers honestly enough, but there's way more to it than that.

He does want to feel; feel Paul the closest way possible, feel Paul inside himself, feel them becoming one single being for a short wonderful while.

Paul looks at him silently for quite some time, as if scrutinising Richard's face in search of any doubts on his part, and when Richard's about to open his mouth to tell Paul that _goddamn yes_ , he wants to be fucked, the latter suddenly grins, and that grin sure has the potential to outshine the stars in the sky, so delightfully untroubled. In his head, Richard briefly wonders if it's normal that he adores this grin so much; hell, he adores Paul's eyes, too, sparkling even in the darkness, his nose and the way he wrinkles it just so, that silly shaggy bleached hair he's got, and, fucking hell, he even likes the way his teeth look, wanting to slide the tip of his tongue over their edge. He doesn't think that's normal, no, not at all, but screw that for now. Now is the time for pleasure, and Paul was right, here are only the two of them, so screw it all. For now, no matter what they do is right.

As Paul reaches sideways for the jar of lube they've brought, a dark silhouette sharply outlined against the night sky, Richard rolls over for him, ending up on his knees and elbows, position he's never been in before this night, one which feels simultaneously strange and wrong and yet the only one he wants to be in at this very moment. He is indeed curious as to what it feels like, but above all curiosity there is the desperate hope that allowing Paul to take him this way will finally put things right, will make everything feel the way it should be even despite the prejudice some might have against activities they engage in.

And, as it turns out, Paul does make it all right, from the very first touch of his slick fingers on him, _in him_ , fingers which for some reason feel way too damn cold even though they normally aren't and the night is hot; fingers which make him shiver, both from the cold slickness of the lube on his skin and from excitement. There's no pleasure as it is yet, not the kind he's used two as far as sex is concerned, but there's no pain and nothing which is unpleasant either, just Paul's touch on him, and it's arousing in itself. Richard pushes his ass towards Paul's hand unable to contain a quiet sound, barely a moan, muffling it against his crossed arms. Paul's other hand is on his dick, jerking him off at a leisurely tempo, and, from time to time, his lips land occasionally onto the small of his back.

"Paul," Richard calls after a while, surprised by the thin, desperate, quality of his own voice. "If you're gonna do anything, just fucking do it already, or you'll just have me coming all over your hand soon."

Instead of a response, he hears a soft chuckle, but Paul obeys and extracts his fingers, leaving one final kiss on Richard's shoulder. The sensation of emptiness inside of him is so utterly weird and by now unfamiliar that Richard can't help a fully formed moan of genuine frustration. He's not left to suffer for long, though – a few heavy heartbeats later, there's something else nudging at his entrance, way warmer than Paul's fingers and definitely way bigger. Paul's hands are back on him, too, holding his hips steadily, and Richard can't get rid of the impression of possessiveness of those confident fingers. What surprises him yet again is that he's not repelled by being possessed by Paul, no, not at all. Quite the opposite, the mere thought of being taken by him is so unexpectedly titillating Richard actually whines a quiet plea for his lover to finally stop being a tease and fuck him properly.

His ardour is put down somewhat when Paul obliges and does what's asked of him, pushing his dick into Richard's ass. He does so slowly and smoothly, but it still manages to suck the very air out of Richard's lungs, and he curses breathlessly on the exhale, forehead pushed against the warm roof tiles. There's just a little sting and much stretch, but that's not what causes Richard to choke on his own breath. What does it is the heat and the throbbing of Paul's flesh, one he's had an opportunity to study meticulously in every little detail over the period they've been sleeping with each other, inside his own ass now, so close to him, so deep in him, closer than seems humanly and physically possible.

"Fuck," Richard whispers, crumpling the threadbare blanket beneath him in his hand. "Fuck, Paul…"

In response, he feels Paul's hands draw a warm caress from his shoulder blades down to his ass until they end up taking another firm hold on his hips. Richard knows what's going to follow next but he's still unprepared when Paul slides in a bit further and then starts to move minutely, tiny thrusting motions of his hips until his dick feels buried so deep it feels as if it's about to reach Richard's tonsils. He stops there, apparently giving him the chance to get used to the sensation, and Richard whines softly into his forearm. It's not provoked by pain or discomfort but by a weird mixture of emotions entangled into a knot Richard would be unable to undo even if he tried, the prevalent of them being the feeling of utter, breath-taking, terrifying openness, of being vulnerable and exposed, but, weirdly, those aren't bad feelings. They leave Richard more confused than ever, but one thing, thankfully, becomes clear – that he's willing and ready to allow Paul to do this to him, intrude into his personal space like this, so close that Richard thinks he feels his own heartbeat synchronising with that of his lover.

When Paul starts to move, ever so slowly at first, little careful thrusts, for which Richard's immensely grateful, Richard tries to do his best to relax, feeling tickling drops of sweat rolling down his temples and perspiration gathering at the backs of his knees and on the inner sides of his elbows. Being gently rocked by Paul's movements, he wonders when the pleasure starts, that sort of it which normally distorts Paul's pretty features into a grimace which Richard would more likely be to interpret as one of torment rather than pleasure if he didn't know better. As if on cue, Paul changes the angle of his thrusts just a tad, and that thought becomes the last coherent one in Richard's head. Because the next moment, Paul's dick finally brushes the right spot, making Richard all but cry out in both pleasure and surprise caused by how intense the sensation is.

Not resembling his own chatty self, Paul remains quiet for a change, the stillness around them being only broken by their breathing, Paul's regular, slightly quickened, Richard's more erratic one, and his faint moans each time Paul's dick hits his prostate, accompanied by the obscenely delicious slapping sound of flesh on flesh. Richard's so lost in this new sensation that when Paul suddenly pulls out, it leaves him virtually disoriented, as if he'd lost his balance or something he was relying on, a soft groan escaping past lips he's bitten almost bloody by now. He's so out of touch with his coherent thinking that when Paul says something to him, he cannot for the life of him comprehend what he's on about. Then there are hands on his shoulders and lips on his cheek, kisses being showered on his sweat-coated, flushed skin, and it still does little to bring Richard back to his senses, quite the opposite.

"Roll over," Paul pants, voice strained and somehow desperate. "Wanna see you."

 _'Huh?'_ is the most intelligible thing Richard can come up with in response, but Paul doesn't seem to need any at all as his hands already pull him up.

"Need to see you," he mumbles. "Wanna look at you. _Please_."

This last _please_ , quivering as if Paul was either on the verge of tears or in pain, and Richard knows that neither is true, more or less brings him back to reality and he obediently rolls onto his back, knees and elbows crying in relief at the sudden absence of the hard surface beneath them. Richard pulls his knees to his chest without further encouraging, opening himself up with his hands on his buttocks – he knows what to do perfectly well, has fucked Paul enough to know the most comfortable position. Paul is on him a few moments later, but not before smearing more lube both on Richard's ass and on himself. He pushes in without any fair warning this time, but that's all right, and, oh miracle, hits the right spot on the first stroke, making Richard's eyes roll back in his head. Unlike before, when having Paul's dick stuck far up his ass felt weird and merely _not_ unpleasant at best, this time the sensation of being filled with his heat and stretched with hardness is craved for. Paul pushes his arms under Richard's head, thus bringing him close to his own face, joining their lips in a clumsy kiss and staring to fuck him in earnest. While there are still some thoughts left in Richard's head – not for long, granted – he thinks that, somehow, they manage to complement each other beautifully in these games they've been playing between the sheets. They don't need much spoken communication, neither to convey what they want to do nor to know what the other desires – it just seems to happen naturally every single time, as if they're able to read into the very souls of one another. This time isn't an exception, either, because when Richard comes, thrashing in Paul's vice-like embrace, fingers digging into the flesh of his bony shoulders so hard he'll leave purplish marks on his skin later, matching his own on his elbows and knees, he feels his lover convulse against him, too, his mouth pressed to Richard but with no strength left for kisses, lips parted against Richard's as they gulp for air together, lungs burning from oxygen deprivation and hearts hammering as if they've just run an Olympic sprint.

Richard can't help a muffled sound as Paul's flesh, now slick not only with the lube they used, but also with Paul's semen, slips out of him, leaving that unpleasant emptiness after itself once again. The next moment, though, he feels the most astounding thing which happens tonight – Paul's lips, apparently aiming for his temple or forehead, pressing clumsily to the corner of his eye instead. It's astounding because, of all the things which have taken place, for some reason, it's this slightly blundered, tired kiss Paul gives him and not the sex itself which somehow makes it all seem normal. It's tender and reassuring, not a testament of passion but a simple gesture of care, and it sends a shiver through Richard's whole body, making him tremble minutely from his shoulders to his toes and cling to Paul. There is a strange sense of tranquillity coming over him, maybe because the afterglow of the release is still fresh, maybe because there's no one in the vicinity, just the two of them under the starry sky, or perhaps because, with Paul, it truly becomes all right. Moved by this emotion, Richard turns his head searching Paul's lips, and to his profound delight is met halfway by Paul's mouth. They kiss for a very long while, unhurriedly, Paul's words he said earlier ringing persistently in his head like a never-ending refrain – _I'm going to kiss you because it feels good_.

And, hell, yeah, this does feel like nothing Richard's ever experienced before, so he lets his arms wrap around Paul's middle – and, by god, just how thin he is, it almost is like hugging a girl, but Richard knows it's not a girl he wants to be doing these kinds of things with. It's Paul he wants, no one else, and he knows just then that struggle against this particular desire is going to be fruitless. Not that he really wants to struggle – why would he when just being there, snuggling, touching, kissing Paul evokes the feeling of profound bliss, lips pressed to the side of his neck, dick warm and wet lying snug against his own, Paul's weight in Richard's arms becoming something so familiar and normal that it feels like coming home every single time, and the only thing which surprises him at this particular moment is how fast it is happening to them. He doesn't know if it'll last; it may, or it may end in a week, who the hell knows, but while it lasts, he knows he's not going to fight it anymore. He needs Paul desperately, whatever he may have done to deserve it, and he's not going to waste time struggling against this desire, anyone else be damned.

"We'd better go inside," Paul mumbles into Richard's ear eventually, sounding contented and sleepy.

Richard only hums in reply, suddenly lost for words. For some reason, the only thing he really feels like saying is asking Paul if he'll stay the night, which is plain ridiculous because there's nowhere else for him to go and he's not making any attempts to leave anyway. Yet, irrationally, there's an unexpected stab of fear that he'll have to spend the rest of the night alone, and absolutely groundless as this fear seems, it makes Richard realise just how direly he needs Paul, just how used to Paul's company he's got, so much so that the possibility of not falling asleep together, with Paul's snatchy fingers holding fast onto him until he drops into deep sleep and finally releases Richard out of his death grip, seems devastating.

Richard doesn't ask, though, knowing it's going to sound utterly ludicrous if he does. They get up haphazardly and make their way back into his attic room, taking the same route they used to get out here on the roof – through the window. Inside, Richard still feels relief wash over him when they finally settle on his old bed, together. It is way too small for two grown up men, but that doesn't pose much trouble in case the two men are willing to snuggle, which these particular two men in question are. What is different from what they normally do is that, this time, it's not Richard holding Paul until he dozes off, it's the other way around, Paul's arms pulling Richard into an embrace as he spoons behind him, lips soft and warm resting against the back of his neck with such ease as if they'd been sleeping in this manner their entire lives and not just the past couple of months.

"Paul?" Richard mumbles into the pillow, too tired to lift his mouth off it, but it's so quiet around that he's sure Paul will be able to hear him.

"Mmm?" his lover – partner – friend – hums questioningly.

"It's so much better than alright," Richard says softly, feeling his cheeks flush but knowing he owes it to Paul to let him know that he's grateful to him for everything they did tonight.

Paul's chuckle lands in a warm puff of air on his skin, and the arms around him take a new, more secure, hold around his waist. Richard doesn't mind that anymore – being held or kissed or fucked doesn't feel all that bothering as long as there's this mutual warmth they share, and it's not even about the comfort provided by physical proximity but more about how psychologically comfortable it is to be with Paul. Richard does his best to consciously enjoy the feeling, lying with his eyes open while gazing through the open window at the brightening strip of the sky in the east. The skyline hasn't changed at all since the times he spent here back in childhood, and for some reason it feels reassuring for him know that he's not looking at it alone but with Paul beside him and that Paul can see it too.

"When I was a kid, I would stare out of this window half the night through, dreaming I'd be in a band one day, you know, like Kiss or Led Zeppelin," he says suddenly, his voice still hushed and somewhat awed.

"You're still not much older than a kid," Paul chuckles sounding smug, obviously teasing him and wanting to rub his nose into the almost two-year age difference they have.

"Says you?" Richard huffs and slaps playfully at the other man's bare hip. "And it's not the point, anyway."

He actually tries to feign exasperation but fails miserably. He finds it hard to be exasperated when he's just had a thoroughly satisfying encounter the afterglow of which is still fresh, and the person he's had it with lies snuggled right behind him radiating so much mirth that Richard can swear he can feel that trademark shit-eating grin right against his own shoulder as if it was branded on his skin. He hasn't had a chance to know Paul well enough yet, but as far as he can judge from what he's seen and from what he's been told, the man is far from being your average nice guy all the time, least of all when he's made his mind about something and someone dares to disagree with him. Even given the short period of time they've been acquainted with each other, it's still not that hard to come to the conclusion that, despite all his amiability and cheerfulness and sense of humour, Paul can and seemingly loves to be a real piece of shit. Yet, in circumstances they normally meet under, there ain't much to argue about or disagree on; they play in different bands most of the time and socialise in different circles, so irritation or exasperation, let alone resentment and hatred which will come later when they do finally end up in the same band and have to spend days and nights together, are not frequently experienced emotions as far as his and Paul's relationship is concerned. There's way more laughter, and Richard's dead certain that Paul's the only person he knows who can have him howling in no time flat. There's also the weird kind of mutual understanding they have in certain activities such as playing and fucking, and, so far, their views on the world don't seem to be too different, all of which combined has every possibility of making Paul a friend. So, when this, albeit adorable, but a little shit nonetheless, makes an attempt to tease him, Richard doesn't really mind. He knows it's good-natured, anyway, and Paul's four limbs which hold on to him securely testify so, too.

"What's the point then, hm?" Paul asks with an obvious smile in his voice.

Richard sighs because what Paul is asking him about concerns his most sacred dream, and, for some reason, even if it may sound way too superstitious, it seems important to be careful about who he shares his most sacred dreams with. This particular person who, with his snatchy fingers, claimed a secure spot in Richard's bed looks trustworthy enough, though, so Richard goes on.

"The point is, I want to go big," Richard says softly. "You know, play in a band which will be able to gather stadiums and sell out venues all over the world."

As he falls silent, with his eyes still fixed on the very faint strip of the breaking dawn on the horizon, he tries to imagine what it'll be like to go out and play not in one of Berlin's pissant clubs but in front of thousands, tens of thousands, of people, proper sound, signature guitars, special effects with fire blasting right on stage. For a brief moment, Richard can see just that, a huge stadium, people in the audience going bonkers as one, head-banging and yelling along, and that deep blue night sky being illuminated by the stage lights, explosions and fireworks. He wants it so bad and the desire is so compulsive it almost hurts, taking his breath away, and this is when Paul's quiet voice brings him back into his less colourful reality.

"Yeah," he murmurs softly against Richards shoulder. "That'd be nice, wouldn't it?"

One of Paul's hands presses to the left side of his chest, where Richards heart beats steadily, and on the spur of the moment, Richard covers it with his own, entwining their fingers together. They don't say anything else for a long while afterwards, and in this comfortable silence, when a shooting star zaps across the sky, a sudden adjustment is made in Richard's dream land. It might be silly, it might be far-fetched, it might be plain impossible, but, somehow, there's Paul standing on that same stage next to him, cheered by thousands in the audience. It might never come to fruition, or even if it could, Paul might still be the wrong person to make a band with, or, for all Richard knows, he might not even be interested in joining in the first place, but, for the time being, it's nothing but a dream and it sure as hell feels nice to have Paul in it.

So, finally, Richard breaks the spell the night sky has on him and turns in Paul's arms until the familiar, so sought for, lips meet his with eagerness matching his own. He gives Paul what he desires willingly and with pleasure – the tactile contact the man craves so much – as he all but pins him to the old lumpy mattress beneath them. Paul might be older but he is so much slimmer and lighter than Richard it must be hard for him to breathe normally in a position like this, but he seems to enjoy it all the same. The snatchy hands are there on Richard in no time, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him even closer as Richard himself is busy nuzzling the spot behind Paul's ear. He's not even kissing him; he's got no energy left for it anymore.

Instead, he simply lets his lips and nose rub against the warm skin as he breathes in Paul's scent, relaxing into his man's secure hold and smiling, still unable to unsee that image of them together, playing side by side for thousands and thousands of people under the endless starry sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the absolutely glorious night sky over Schwarzwald. Had to make Richard dreamy, too, to somehow justify all the bloody stars in this fic XD
> 
> *'The Sun and the Moon and the Stars' by Depeche Mode.


End file.
